Snake in the Grass
by SunsetSky412
Summary: With a sudden change in the Shift-underworld the criminal dynamics are thrown off balance - and the consequences bring more than expected... Sequel to 'Shifts'
1. The Present

**Snake in the Grass**

**Disclaimer: **Sherlock and its characters belong to the BBC and Arthur Conan Doyle - just the Shift concept belongs to me

This is the start of the sequel to 'Shifts' - you may want to read that one-shot before this; don't worry it won't take long

Now from the start of this I promise it's not a repeat of an episode - the plot and concepts around it are completely different; trust me.

And thank you so much for all those who have read, favourited or reviewed 'Shifts' - it all means so much to me and I love you all for it!

Enjoy x

* * *

"There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact."  
― **Arthur Conan Doyle, _The Boscombe Valley Mystery_**

* * *

The Present

The clear darkness of the sky highlighted the full moon; the beams shadowing the sleeping buildings whilst revealing the hidden pockets on the street corners and in the covered alleyways, leaving the hours deprived of secrets and horrors for that one moment.

John basked in these minutes of tranquillity when they came about; perhaps it was the hound that enjoyed the feel of the night air on his skin, the vast openness of the city with an unstoppable amount of roads and routes to sprint down and the sense of freedom from being in a place where nobody was present to throw second glances at the bulky beast of the Shift.

Or maybe it was the human part of his brain that fascinated in the fact that he was currently being lit by the light of the sun despite it lying at the opposite side of the world, the thought that he was witnessing balls of gas light-years in the distance from an insignificant pavement in an area that was a dot in accordance to the universe and the idea that among the millions of people that swirled around him only he was awake.

Either way he was enjoying his silent walk through London's streets, after the events that had begun to unfold over them in the past week it was a relief to have a small break from the live recordings on the pink I-Phone and the sometimes inhumane glee the eccentric detective flashed as they ran around trying to piece together the string of riddles.

Sherlock was undeniably the genius of the country and the one option for a clear-cut, quick answer to a case but unfortunately for him the average majority of crimes were committed by fellow Shifts, meaning that they all fell in his 'boring' category.

"The world understands that there are a large number of people who can turn into animals! Is it too much to ask them to be more original in their murders rather than simply clawing, pecking or mauling a victim! Where is the challenge in that? Are all Shifts really so densely idiotic!"

Along with the simplicity route that went with these crimes there was also the fact that the detective could identify a Shift as soon as they entered for an interview or were caught after a chase due to the aura that could be detected.

"You know if a suspect's a Shift at the exact moment I do! Think of the insult that is to my mind - why do cases that your average brain could solve a mere minutes after mine deserve to be even hinted in my direction!"

So actually listening to one of the detective's self-important rants for once, Scotland Yard formed a Shift division purposely for crimes that had such suspects; it seemed even Lestrade had agreed that if there were others who could carry out the same job without the sociopathic attitude it would be a relief for all.

Which of course meant that from that day Sherlock had automatically shunned any case that included anything around the Shift heritage; which hadn't left many openings for the detective's ever-working brain seeing as most normal beings felt that they didn't have enough power to accomplish the feats of the Shift criminal world.

So the sudden appearance of the human crime-genius Moriarty had been a blessing to the quick maddening feline; the new criminal wasn't on any Shift registers plus from the utterly non-Shift route he was using it was clear that the man had no link to the heritage. So Sherlock had thrown himself into the task, urgently awaiting each new message as soon as he finished the previous; John had forgotten what their wallpaper looked like, it had been re-plastered with a vast collection of maps, theories and strangely a portrait of Elvis Presley.

Four messages so far, each one following the same format but with different subjects. There been a mid-aged woman, a late twenties man, an elderly woman and a young child; Sherlock had already stated that they were simply pawns in the game and didn't hold a connection to Moriarty's route or desire so were unimportant. Though John had alternative opinions on the matter of innocent people's lives when it was brought up which had resulted in the detective's dressing gown parading a few new claw tears; but it hadn't changed the fact that Sherlock was correct about the victims being randomly picked.

Each message was a live video sent through a pink I-Phone, it would show a paralysed victim set in an empty room in an unknown destination with a countdown placed next to them. The instructions or pictures would be shown on the screen leaving the two Shifts to find the answer to Moriarty's shoe snapshot or short sentence whilst having the image of dying citizen sitting in their pocket.

Sherlock had deduced that the victims were being injected with some form of poison from the first message, which easily explained why the time limit given for each 'pip' varied as it depended on the volume of poison that had been administrated. The detective couldn't tell what the poison was from the medium-panned video and without a list of symptoms; so deleted the victims once they had been taken to the hospital as he found it a waste of time to go and wait for their minds to become clear enough to explain their drug encounter. So far most cases had received the antidote in time and were now recovering safely in hospital, doubled checked by the concerned member of 221B; most except the third pip.

It had been a meaningless death; all the others had been knocked unconscious before waking in an unfamiliar location but the precaution had obviously been deemed unnecessary for one lacking the ability to see. Though this meant she had heard; the woman had listened to a brief mutter from Moriarty and she'd tried to describe the sound to Sherlock despite desperate protests, but the live feed had suddenly cut off as soon as she began and she was found dead with a second injection prick millimetres from the first.

John sighed, running a hand through his hair; now they were just waiting for that final message and the suspense was killing the Shift; he could just imagine a care-free person quietly sleeping in their bed as he walked the streets, not knowing that soon they would be bundled off and drugged all just to satisfy the needs of a manic criminal.

Suddenly the hairs on the back of his neck straightened and he froze, his muscles tensing and his eyes sweeping the area; something was wrong.

A faint rustle only picked up by his canine hearing sounded from behind and he spun around, his body already hunching over as it prepared to alter its form; but a dark shape rapidly lurched from the bushes before the hound could appear and the Shift cried out as a sharp pain stabbed his neck before a blunt object hammered against his skull and the darkness flooded his sight, taking the tingling sensation in his flesh with it.

* * *

Sherlock cautiously sulked down the dimly lit corridor, his black fur mingling with the shadows as his green eyes flicked over every supposedly locked door; the main ones leading to the pool having clearly already been unlocked from the slightly fainter reflection of light bouncing off the lock where a hand had recently been placed while opening it in preparation for his arrival.

_Gratifying to see some common courtesy intact_, he'd been expecting Moriarty to be in place for the meeting, leaving it to look like Sherlock was the one whose presence had been requested rather than the other way around, _criminals do enjoy their power-plays._

The memory-stick holding the missile plans dangled between his teeth, it would be easier to simply carry them in his human form but when dealing with a non-Shift criminal such as Moriarty he was wary of the fact that quite a few snipers were probably placed around the area due to that need to show strength to a Shift through human means, and a feline made a much smaller target.

Bending his hind legs and lowering his back Sherlock briefly eyed the metal push bar, calculating the level of force he'd have to place on it in accordance to his lower mass before taking a well-aimed leap and pushing the bar down as he landed on it, causing the door to jolt open enough to let the feline jump into the room as the metal entrance slammed behind him.

The stench of chlorine hit his sensitive nose straight away and he took effort to hold back a hiss, but as the pungent smell relaxed through familiarity another recognisable scent became clear and Sherlock's back arched with his hair standing on end – _John!_

Snapping his head around his gaze fell on his friend jerking around on the floor, one of his hands grasping a changing-curtain with whitened knuckles as he clearly tried to smother down his desire to cry out.

Sherlock's eyes widened at the sight and with perfectionist skill he shifted mid-sprint without losing any momentum and fell to his knees at John's side.

"John describe your symptoms to me!" The detective barked; he assumed that the doctor's state was due to the injection that had been used on each person so far, but until now they had never witnessed the victims before the stage that left them paralysed and that, plus his refusal to visit any of the previously poisoned meant he was unaware of the concoction that had been used, _never leave loose ends!_

The lack of an understandable reply sent a shot of panic through his body and his nerves slipped through his tone as he ordered again, "Your symptoms Captain!"

The poisoned Shift's chest was bursting at the rim; it was as if a sumo-wrestler was lounging on him, he could barely control his arms and legs and his attempts resulted in exaggerated flailing. He could taste the blood in his mouth from where he'd ripped through his bottom lip as he tried to resist his need to scream, not wanting to give any satisfaction to Moriarty who was likely somewhere near-by watching the event and he could feel the tears stinging at the corner of his eyes from the embarrassment of the puddle of urine beneath him as his body had lost its bodily functions.

Hearing the familiar voice John's eyes snapped open and he took in the uncharacteristic plaster of fear on the detective's face, but the sound of his title shook him into focus and he tightly relayed through gritted teeth, "It was in the neck – blow to head mixes timings… but – from consciousness - tingling sensation spread from the region across the body after six minutes… eight minutes increased salivation – twelve drowsiness…"

He let out a strangled gasp as the pounding in his chest hardened, "Fifth-teen degrading co-ordination… twenty loss of bodily functions and now… now bloomin' great chest pains – "

A pained grunt broke off his analysis and he pulled at the curtain clenched in his fist, his strength causing it to rip from the bar so he drew it to his screaming body, curling himself around the material as the torture sliced through him.

Sherlock's mind was reeling through the information, comparing the rough timings of symptoms and the likely time of full paralysation in accordance to the timings between the appearances of each new victim next to his mental library of poisons whilst trying to block out John's shaky gasps.

_The soundest conclusion would be neurotoxic venom… _

As the thought came to him a whole new pathway opened up and his eyes widened at his own stupidity for not thoroughly checking over the victims attacks; his fingers quickly moved to John's collar and he dragged it down, inwardly cursing at the marking on his neck.

The two small puncture wounds sitting approximately two centimetres apart were highlighted by the purple swelling skin around the area, showing clearly a venomous injection not through a needle, but by a snake.

"The Black Mamba…" Sherlock whispered, unable to completely douse the spark of delight at the situation suddenly becoming a lot more interesting.

"So that's how you've been obtaining the victims," The detective theorized, raising his voice to address the room as he slowly got to his feet and scanned the area for signs of movement; making sure he kept his body positioned in-line of any potential shooting points towards John, "You've been using a Shift to do the dirty work – not that I'm surprised by your need to use another hand on the capturing front but I'm curious as to why a normal human of the criminal nature would associate with one of the heritage; isn't there a raging battle for dominance of the underworld between your kinds?"

The pool remained silent, which was seen as a sign for the detective to continue talking, "One bite and they'd be easy to take, next just let the venom reside until the victim was rendered speechless and immobile so they couldn't form hints over video while they were kept as pawns and then finally they would be left in a catatonic state even after having the anti-venom injected leaving you free to continue this game without revealing your advantage."

His smug tone echoed off the cold walls and Sherlock took pride from the lack of response, seeing it as proof that he had taken the upper hand.

A cracked wheeze brought back the realisation that there was more at stake than the case at that moment and Sherlock quickly risked a glance behind to note that John had fallen into paralysation, his normally assertive eyes hollow and glazed as his body began to shut down.

"Look I have the plans!" Sherlock announced, worry evident in his voice, "That's what this has all been about and here, you get it – just hand me the cure in return."

A slow echo of dripping water bounced off the walls as the void of response continued, but then, as if the noise was climbing up through the cracks in the floor a deep chuckle emitted across the pool.

"Oh how precious is this," a childish whine called out, "And to think if only you'd used my number we could have gone out for a coffee – and then you wouldn't be as averagely _dim_ as you are right now…"

The end of the spitting sentence came with the sharp click of footsteps as the sight of a face that wasn't completely a stranger came into view – along with the fact that this face came with an aura that distinctly characterized him as a Shift.

For the first time in his existence; Sherlock's brain actually froze for a millisecond. Just as quickly it jumped back into action trying to find even a hint of reasoning as to how the event had suddenly switched in such a way.

"But that's not possible…" The detective whispered, mostly to himself, "You came into the lab with Molly – and you had no aura of Shift; how could you possibly have one now?"

Moriarty, or Jim as he now apparently was, flicked a smug grin with an exaggerated shrug, "Well everyone has secrets don't they; I just happened to find a way to keep mine a secret from _everyone… _dull Shifts and humans alike."

Despite the situation, Sherlock's eyes had an alit spark in them as he assessed Moriarty and the new evidence that he was a Shift and had somehow managed to find a way to hide the fact from even those who shared the heritage and could sense all the others of their kind; it was like a triple homicide at Christmas!

"So you've created a form of… chemical most likely – that manages to make the Shift gene regress so that it fails to give off the heritage aura," The feline theorized, clasping his hands behind his back and retaining an uninterested mask over his features to insure Moriarty wouldn't be aware how impressed he actually was.

"That's me!" The clearly unstable man sang, skipping a few feet closer to the detective before sliding a small tube of lilac liquid from his trouser pocket.

"This little thing is just _so_ ingenious; not even you can disagree with that darling," Jim stated, waving the tube in-front of him in the way one would to bait a pet.

"Without analysis it could just as easily be a tube of coloured water and our first meeting just happened to coincide with a flux of my aura senses," He replied in a dry tone.

A flash of anger broke through Jim's child-like glee but he quickly recovered it with a humourless smile and shoved his hand in his Westwood jacket, chucking the detective a brown envelope, "Well there's your evidence science boy."

Sherlock refrained from smirking as he received the envelope he had guessed would be on Moriarty's person, not trusting anyone else including computers to look after his invention; it would save him a lot of time from where he would have had to study the liquid through numerous tests.

He simply flipped open the paper flap and glanced at the documents; he didn't doubt that Moriarty had created this gene numbing chemical but the details weren't high on priority at the very moment.

Sherlock allowed himself a second to spare a look to his fallen comrade; logically he knew that he was fine, all the other victims had been left in the paralysis state for much longer periods than John was currently ticking through. Although despite the known fact of his safety, for some strange reason the detective still felt a sense of… worry.

"Well then, seeing as your intentions clearly weren't to do with obtaining the missile plans but were instead about being able to show off your new chemical to someone else with an intellect that would value the complicity of it all; I'd like to be taking that anti-venom with me now."

The criminal raised a finger to lightly tap on his chin and lightly shook his head, mocking disappointment seeping into his tone, "Aren't you even going to say thank-you for your present?"

Sherlock's gaze hardened for a second as his brain rushed to tell him the meaning of the Shift's question and his eye's widened as the result came through, "Oh… you've already released this chemical throughout your web; right now every criminal, petty or serious, will be buying and taking your new product."

Jim threw on an excited grin but his head slowly tilted from side to side, giving a predatory feel to his words, "Every Shift who's been limited by that pesky heritage connection of being able to sense each-others auras; it won't matter anymore. Take one injection before each escapade, police interview or chase and nobody will be any the wiser about your little problem; feel free to blame your crimes on those normal humans – it'll be the most excitement they'll get in those boring lives of theirs."

"So this is what? You giving me a warning?" Sherlock replied, raising an eyebrow in amusement at the notation.

"Nope," He answered, popping the last syllable, "Just a bit of entertainment."

Then chucking a full syringe at the detective he casually spun around and walked from the room; hands in his pockets and gently whistling the tune to 'Staying Alive' by the Bee Gees.

As soon as the click of the far door sounded as it swung to a close, Sherlock fell to his knees and grabbed John's limp arm, quickly forcing up his jacket sleeve and stabbing the needle into his skin; injecting the anti-venom into his bloodstream.

He watched his friend with wide eyes, scanning his face for signs of response. His mind was tracking the anti-venom through a mental biological map so he knew at what point John should begin to show flickers of consciousness yet he kept re-checking himself; what if his calculations were wrong? What if another unknown variable had been put in place and ruined the whole antidote?

But as the doubts started to enter his mind the Shift let out a low groan of pain, soon followed by slow movements of his hands and legs to check that they were once again under his control.

"John?" The detective prodded, unsure of if there was some form of sentence he was expected to use after this kind of situation.

"Yeah… I'm fine," John muttered, shakily lifting himself from his lying position using the detective's arm which had been held out as he'd began to move.

"Good," He responded, carefully positioning the Shift so he was leant against the wall, "Good."

Sensing that Sherlock was having trouble with the anxiety that he was feeling and the fact that he didn't know what to do with the emotions, John helped him along and swiftly changed the subject away from his poisoning.

"So – your present?"

The detective's furrowed features suddenly lit up once more and he swiped the brown envelope from behind him and settled into a cross-legged position in-front of the pale doctor.

"It's quite ingenious," Sherlock began, taking the collection of documents from the holder and expertly scanning over them, absorbing the information double the speed of any normal person, "The whole basis is around the fact that as Shifts we are driven by human and animal nature; meaning our emotions work on a much more animalistic level than normal beings."

"Makes sense," John mumbled, his eyes drifting shut as his body begged for rest yet his brain knowing that that wasn't going to become an option until Sherlock had finished his talk.

"Of course it does. It's a simple observation; canines will wag their tails when experiencing a positive emotion, felines will arch up and hiss when they feel they're in danger. But this chemical works on the track of survival instinct – normal humans have it; but in animals it's just that much stronger."

The scientist side of the Shift was fully shining through as he continued to dissect the information in his hands; seemingly forgetting John was even present, "Oh that's good – biologically fear is a warning signal that death, injury or destruction is imminent; relate that to animals and you're looking at the instinct of fleeing when the brain receives that chemical classified as fear. Seeing that the Shift gene reacts on a pure instinctive basis being the core of the animal qualities – eject the correct volume of a solution containing obvious pathogens, just enough for the body to recognise the attack but just too few so that they can quickly be neutralised by the immunity system; the Shift gene senses the danger, retreats in on itself causing the aura it usually casts out to be dragged back in until the threat has past!"

Jumping onto his feet, Sherlock let out a laugh, shaking his head, "Oh why didn't I think of this sooner! I could have had a proper case months ago!"

Flicking the paper through his fingers the detective headed for the door, speedily muttering equations and chemicals under his breath when a stern cough interrupted him.

"Sherlock!"

Turning to his name a flood of realisation came over his features and he quickly ran back to the Shift he had left sitting in pain on the floor, "Oh, sorry! It's just so fascinating!"

John groaned as he was gently helped off the floor and he winced as his legs took the full weight of his body, "Yeah… obviously."

Swinging the doctor's arm around his shoulder and placing his other hand around his waist, Sherlock was forced to awkwardly bend over for his friend's lack of height as he guided him towards the exit; though it still didn't stop his ramblings, "But the question is why would Moriarty go to all the trouble of creating the chemical in order for secrecy when he was simply planning to tell me about the whole thing once it was completed?"

His head lolling forward as fatigue began to win over him, John's words came out as a low slur, "Maybe he gets bored too…"

As if just remembering that the man he was practically carrying had only just return from paralysation after a snake bite, the detective cast him a worried glance; his tone falling into an uncomfortable territory, "How – um, how are you doing?"

John gave a weak chuckle at Sherlock's attempt of comfort but appreciated the gesture, "I've seen worse – just get me to a bed."

The detective's brow furrowed as he tried to bring across his sentiment, these things were always so much easier when John was a hound, "Um – yes well… I'm glad you're – you know…"

"Thanks," John gratefully replied to Sherlock's version of, _I'm glad you didn't die._

"Well," He continued, smoothly moving away from the sincere moment, "You can sleep tonight, but by the morning there should be no traces of the venom in your blood and all swelling and bruising should have gone down – we're going to have a lot of work on our hands if we want to keep on top of the sudden rise in criminal activity starting tomorrow."

As the metal pool door swung shut the flat tone of the battered Shift was left echoing through the empty room, "Oh joy."

* * *

_6 months later…_

* * *

Shots cracked through the air, bursts of dry soil flying across the horizon; taking material and injured with them which landed with defending crashes only to be followed by further explosions.

Two men scrambled over their fallen comrades with forced disinterest, lifting their guns over their heads in weak attempts to shield themselves from the grenade debris. Screams rung through the Afgan valley as more timed mines were activated and further snipers were released on the area; one of the men drastically lunged to his left just missing the hand-grenade that destroyed the ground he'd been standing on moments ago.

Shrill ringing piercing his ears he only felt a hand clasp his arm and drag him forwards, his eyes seeing his friend's mouth move but his ears failing to tell him the noises that were coming with it.

"Target less than fifth-teen metres ahead! Don't slack on me now!" Seth Manning barked at the last remaining man of his unit, giving him a shove in the right direction Seth continued on the trigger-happy trail, sensing that Bryan was following.

It was the pain-in-the-neck criminal warfare dealer who they had been tracking for capture and recover for who knows who could remember how long. A couple of months ago the man had suddenly appeared in his main trading ground; from stupidity or clear arrogance it couldn't be told.

None of the force, even the higher intelligence knew much about him; there wasn't even a name available to go with the crimes. All of his customers who they'd extracted information from had simply referred to him as 'the dealer'; but what was known was that he had control of every single weapon or ammunition that left or entered the country – some people actually had suspicions that the army itself would sometimes obtain machinery through him when they were in dire need.

Then a few days ago a source had reported the man's entry into the local area; actions had been taken into effect immediately and a high status track and retrieval team was released with orders to capture preferably alive – although only _preferably._

Now only Captain Seth Manning and his comrade Bryan Lems were left, the other 15 men making up the original squad having been killed in action; most during the last ten minutes in the previously unknown high-wired valley which had been laced with mines, automatic snipers and remote controlled hand-grenade catapults.

It had looked like a panicked flee into the sharp valley on 'the dealers' behalf and the team had thought themselves to have the clear upper-hand; but the dry land had quickly become a blood bath and the stolen souls of his fellow soldiers was what was now spurring Seth on with a savage eye.

"Move man!" He barked, pushing Bryan ahead of him as he stumbled again; there was no way on earth that he was going to be the only man from the team going home, he needed his fellow soldier to stay alive.

Squinting through the thick dust Seth cursed as he realised he'd lost track of the dark figure that had cost so many lives; 'the dealer' had disappeared in the clouds of the ammunition.

Suddenly a massive explosion burst from his left and he was thrown to the ground, hearing Bryan's pained cry amongst the blasting noise.

Ringing in his ears Seth wildly looked around for his colleague through the dirt and debris; turning his head just in time to see the barrel of a gun and hear the crack of a shot.

* * *

A newly polished black leather Gucci shoe stepped off the small dust covered plane, slowly followed by the accompanying tailored suit and crisp-cut tie. The wearer of the outfit surveyed the run-down surroundings of the hidden landing zone through his tinted sunglasses before raising his head to the sight of the British sky; a satisfied smirk gracing his face.

"Um… I've been called for a Moriarty?" A nervous cab driver spoke up, if not already worried by having to drive to a non-existent airport with threats on his family for keeping his silence, definitely so now by the sight of this man who radiated the sense of pure danger.

Closing his eyes at the soft gaze of the sun, the man replied with a tone of content, "Get me to London."

* * *

**A/N: **Updates won't be amazingly regular I'm sorry because I'm really busy but I'll do my best!

_Thank you, please review :)_


	2. The Case

**Snake in the Grass**

**Disclaimer: **Sherlock and its characters belong to the BBC and Arthur Conan Doyle - just the Shift concept belongs to me

* * *

_"The game is afoot." _  
― **Arthur Conan Doyle**

* * *

The Case

"John get back down – I can hear you tensing to run."

The annoyed face of the giant hound snarled in the direction of the living room but still grumpily relaxed his muscles and settled back down on the floor, resting his head on the kitchen table in-front of an old rag soaked in chlorine.

"This is vital to the case," The voice of the focused detective continued from where he was sat on the sofa adding notes to St Bart's confidential yearly scientific report that he'd just printed from their files, "Depending on the timing of when that replica rag coated in the correct amount of chlorine becomes odourless depends on whether that was actually how she was killed – I can't continue until I know how the victim was murdered and your sense of smell is regrettably superior to mine."

John inwardly cursed his pin-point senses, gnashing his teeth from the toll of four hour boredom that was hanging over him; there wasn't even anything he could do to help pass the time when he was stuck like this – laptops, books or tea weren't designed for the use of a hound.

There was a time, in the long distance past where sitting with no means of distraction for a few hours would have sounded as a time for some pleasant relaxation; simply taking comfort from where he had ended up in his life.

But since Moriarty's 'Shift Shelter' chemical, as it had been donned by someone or other, had hit the black-market all those months ago John had gotten used to a life full of non-stop chases, crime scenes and an egotistic detective; especially since it had caused the crash of the Shift Criminal Activity Department as they could no longer distinguish a suspects heritage from presence and Sherlock had decided to unofficially and single-handedly become the shut-down department.

Hence meaning that staring at an old cloth was not an activity he had any desire to be involved in.

The dull beep of John's ringtone broke through the silence and he raised his head to the noise, only to have it pushed back down as Sherlock ran past him to retrieve the phone from upstairs, "Stay!"

The doctor huffed at the empty room, he may _technically_ be a dog – but that didn't mean he could just be treated like one.

Gliding back into the room with his scarf wrapped around his neck, he finished a text and shoved John's phone into his trade-mark coat pocket before putting it on; John actually couldn't remember the last time that he had been able to keep his phone on his own person.

"I don't understand why Lestrade still insists on ringing you when he has a case; it's not like you're the one who's going to be solving it," The detective muttered as he moved a string of intestines from the microwave to the fridge so they wouldn't go bad whilst they were out.

_Maybe because he knows that you're more likely to have my phone on you than yours_, John thought to himself.

Using their unique ability to tell what the other would be saying if they weren't in their form Sherlock mumbled, "Well it's not like you can use it as a hound."

Heading to the door he stopped just as he was about to disappear down the stairs and poked his head around the door to give John an expecting look.

The hound replied with his own head tilt towards the rag that still had a faint scent of chlorine wafting off it.

Sherlock sighed and said in a tone as if he was talking to a small child, "I've worked out that it was suicide – so it doesn't matter if she used a chlorine rag or not; boring. Now this new case, well we can only hope for the best!"

Then he bounded down the stairs, shouting a brief good-bye to Mrs Hudson as he ran out of the building.

With a deep growl John changed back to his normal form, angered at having just been robbed four hours of his life.

Knowing that Sherlock wouldn't leave for the crime scene without him; partially because he just doesn't do that and partially because there was a likelihood Lestrade wouldn't let him onto the scene without his 'handler' as he'd once been called much to the detective's displeasure, John purposefully took his time getting his coat and keys.

Once two minutes had passed, where he could imagine Sherlock was close to storming back in, knocking him out and dragging him to the crime, John made to leave. But at the last second he quickly switched the intestines from the fridge into the microwave once more; see how the feline feels about having used all those hours on an experiment which will have rotted by the time he returns.

* * *

The house was surrounded by the classic yellow police tape, various members of the force surveying the area in their fluorescent jackets and politely moving curious on-lookers away from the perimeter.

As Sherlock stepped out of the black taxi each officer suddenly found something that looked to be of vital importance in the opposite direction and quickly headed off to investigate; there was always the risk of interaction with the detective ending with him getting a fist to the face, and it wasn't that they didn't want to hurt the stuck-up man, more that they were wary of the gigantic hound that was always at his shoulder disguised in that friendly short human form.

Lestrade spotted them from across the road and strode over, "Ah, Sher… John," He finished as the detective brushed past him without a sparing glance; shaking his head he turned to the doctor and took his outreached hand.

"Hey Greg, haven't seen you in a while," John commented, ducking under the tape as the police detective held it up for him.

Lestrade smirked, throwing the Shift a bemused look, "You have noticed the fact that you're the only one who can stay in the presence of Holmes for extended periods of time?"

"Ah - you were starting to feel the headache."

"I'd describe it as more of a never-ending migraine, which is always followed by a side dish of a head-ache."

"It's really that bad?"

Closing the door behind him Lestrade's expression dropped to show the extent of his exhaustion, "Sherlock has forced himself onto literally every single new case for the past six months – now just try to jot up the number of people who would seriously consider switching alliances in order to knock him off and how much more time all his appearances have given him to annoy these people even further… let's just say being the keeper of the peace isn't the reason I joined the Yard."

John gripped the man's shoulder; it wasn't as if he hadn't been noticing the strain in his friend's eyes with each passing meeting, "So you have a good week hiding in the basement of paperwork?"

"Oh it was heaven."

"… so he had clearly only recently returned home –" The detective was announcing to the empty room; not realising that the two men hadn't followed him straight in, "…John?"

The doctor blinked, turning his head to his name as he walked into the living room, "What?"

Sherlock stared at him with aggravation, "I asked for your opinion – were you not listening to anything I just revealed?"

John raised an eyebrow and shared an amused glance with Lestrade who was leaning against the wall; happy to be able to sit this interaction out, "Well unless you expect my canine hearing to work through walls then no, I couldn't hear what you were saying."

The detective looked momentarily startled, but it quickly melted into annoyance and he slid into the kitchen, taking out John's phone and starting to send texts which would probably be directed to contacts in distant countries; kicking the doctor's phone bill up even more.

Running a hand through his hair at the Shift's childish behaviour, John began to scan the room since Sherlock's display showed that he had no intention of repeating himself; sometimes he wondered if switching the man with a child would leave him to deal with fewer tantrums.

John Watson wasn't a stupid man; the doctor and captain title proved as much, so endless crime scenes at a constant rate with the same genius detective had left him to pick up a fair few of the observation skills involved.

The most obvious attribute of the room was the bloodied body lying on the centre rug; the man was position with his stomach to the floor, deep scars digging through his back yet the extent of blood seeping underneath him showed that he had been attacked from the front. His arm was spread out towards the small fireplace, his fingers stretched in the direction of a small iron rod where he had tried to crawl and reach an object to draw to his defence; it had been a brutal and savage attack.

Moving to the rest of the room it showed no signs of a struggle; the only item out of place was a fresh coffee stain with a disregarded mug nearby and the lack of area which the blood sat suggested he definitely wasn't suspecting an attack; so perhaps the victim knew the killer? Or maybe didn't but simply didn't think them to look like the dangerous type.

Letting out a gentle sneeze he walked over to the TV and noted that the date of the programme guide was around a month old; with this he swept his eyes around the room as a whole and realised that it showed no recent signs of life – no odd objects lying around, no accidently forgotten scraps of food, even the little plastic bin in the corner was empty. Clearly the victim hadn't been living here recently; if it actually _was_ his house.

"Alright kid, I'm up to date," John called out to wherever Sherlock had disappeared, there were most likely a million pointless things that he hadn't picked up but he really didn't care about finding out what the man had for breakfast yesterday and how he chose to eat it.

Lestrade threw the doctor a humorously panicked look and quickly sped forward and grabbed his shoulders, "No John! Don't tell me you've turned into one of his clones – I wasn't gone that long; you can't leave me to be the only normal person within this weird little crime-fighting team of ours."

The corner of John's mouth threatened to quirk into a grin, "One of?"

"The supposed professional detective here has long suspected that I have somehow made un-identical clone versions of myself and donned them as members of the homeless society; I believe he claimed it could be the only explanation for why so many people would willingly work for me," Sherlock drawled as he appeared from the kitchen, hitting the send button one more time before slipping the phone away.

John threw the detective a withering glare, "How much debt am I going to be in at the end of this month?"

"Just enough for you to have to write up some detailed reports on my actions and whereabouts for Mycroft," He replied before shutting back down to his emotionless work mode.

"He's just return from abroad; non-recreational purposes going by that patchy tan, and the lack of suitcases along with the empty wardrobes around the house show that he left his visiting country very quickly – "

John glanced up, "How can you be sure this is house? There are no pictures or anything around connecting him."

"I phoned his estate agent," The detective replied in a tone that implied his answer to be the most obvious thing in the world, "There's a 'For Sale' sign with the Wickershem Society three houses down and in these borderline upper class estates where each house owners trying to outdo their neighbour on the class level, our guy was going to have brought it through the same over-priced company."

Chucking Lestrade a kitchen note-pad with black scribbles over it Sherlock continued, "There's most of the information you need on the guy – and you should thank me, I had to listen to the estate agents sob-story about her lack of love life to get that; not that I can't understand why the guy left her if she regularly reveals her personal life to strangers down the phone, very stupid of her – if you're answering the phone to someone who's looking for knowledge about a customer then clearly they're only faking interest in order to achieve what they want. This society is sometimes so dim it's actually hard to believe."

"The man, Sherlock?" John sighed, it was one grating aspect of the feline to always forget that he hadn't actually revealed any facts after finding them; yet he'd still get in a sulk when you didn't know the information that he hadn't told you.

"Lawrence Carter, forty-three, brought the place three years ago moving from a house further out of the city, works in a travel agents on flexible hours and was recently sent off to sort out a hotel contact abroad. Lives alone; no wife, no kids and from the emptiness of this place plus only the one contact in his phone for his boss – no friends. All in all a very boring man who has now been violently murdered by a –"

"Fox formed Shift," John added from where he was knelt examining Lawrence's body.

"Exactly," Sherlock agreed, "So the question is why has such a dull man who's not on the Shift records or has had any history with the heritage suddenly rushed back home terrified and got himself killed by a fox formed."

Looking up from where he was squinting at the note-pad attempting to read the detective's scrawl Lestrade prodded, "Can we have an answer then?"

"I'm working on it," Sherlock replied, sliding past the Yard worker, "Come on John we need to go and speak with Lawrence's wife."

"You said he didn't have a wife," John shouted through the door that the detective had escaped through, stopping to take a moment to give Lestrade a comforting pat on the shoulder on his way out.

"Fine; ex-wife if you want to be specific."

"You implied that he hadn't been married."

"No I stated that he didn't have a wife – not that he had never had a wife. Really John you need to start listening to the details of what I say."

Slamming the door of the taxi behind him the doctor glared at his fellow Shift - there was a short moment of silence between the two with John continuously staring down a man who wasn't even looking in his direction. The driver nervously shuffled in his seat.

"Give me my phone."

"43 Hammersin Way please."

The taxi slowly started down the road, making its way back onto the main junction and briefly stopped at a set of traffic lights.

"Do you think your skull would make a good chew toy?"

* * *

**A/N:**

I'm half way through the next chapter - and it will be longer than this one :) Though I can't predict when it'll be uploaded x

_Thankyou, please review :) x_


	3. The Proposal

**Snake in the Grass**

**Disclaimer: **Sherlock and its characters belong to the BBC and Arthur Conan Doyle - just the Shift concept belongs to me

* * *

"What a lovely thing a rose is!"

- **Arthur Conan Doyle, _The Naval Treaty_**

* * *

The Proposal

The lines of buildings and trees merged into a blurred back-drop as John's gaze quickly flicked from side to side following the sight of the taxi's journey; trying to work out which part of London they were now travelling through.

Sherlock on the other hand, had his piercing eyes settled on the driver's head, most likely analysing his evening plans since the detective's fully functional London mental map meant staring out of taxi windows was beneath him.

"How'd you get the address?" John asked, breaking away from the sight of the speeding scenery that was embarrassingly tempting him to stick his head out of the window.

"You have a name, you can find an address; I'm sure even you could have accomplished such a feat," he replied with a purposeful raise of his eyebrow; not breaking his eye's hold on the driver's un-combed hair.

"So how did you find her name?"

"I didn't."

"So you don't know her name?"

"Fascinating observation."

"Then you didn't _have_ a name to find an address."

"I never claimed to know her name."

"But you implied that you knew it."

"No I merely stated that if one had a name an address could be found; not that I used that method."

"Then why mention the method?"

"Perhaps to give you future advice – think of whichever answer you'd like."

"So just to clarify – you didn't know her name?

"No – I didn't."

"Then how do you know her address?"

John could practically hear the detective's neck click as he snapped around, momentarily losing himself and letting out a sharp hiss at the mediocrity of his companion's questions, "The address was obtained, the taxi's moving, we're about to arrive and begin to find some useful information on our body – does it matter how I found the house!"

Silence fell over the vehicle, only the awkward swallow of the driver being heard.

John held Sherlock's frustrated glare with a mildly shocked expression, but a grin smoothly slid onto his face and he reached over to slap a hand on the man's shoulder, "Thanks!"

The Shift blinked and glanced down at the hand before throwing John a bewildered look.

The doctor grinned and leant back into his seat, placing his hands behind his head in a position radiating smugness, "You've just won me ten pounds, I knew I could get you to human form hiss before Greg."

The fire left Sherlock's eyes but he kept a withering gaze, "I'm glad I can be of assistance to the ex-army officer's and the Scotland Yard's detective's childish bets."

"Well we can't all be workaholics," He started, stepping out of the taxi as it came to a stop and bending down to look back into the car through the open window, "Trust me, if that happened the flat would be uninhabitable and you'd be a food-deprived skeleton crumbling in the corner with a little notebook clutched in your bony fingers."

Sherlock smirked at the strange mental picture and moved his hand onto the door handle in preparation to get out; suddenly he caught the driver's awaiting gaze in the wing mirror and gave a sharp nod.

With a groan the taxi sped off down the road, leaving a startled Shift lying on the pavement from where the vehicles wind blast had knocked him over.

John stiffly lifted himself off the ground, his keen ears picking up the sound of the retreating taxi; just as he was on the verge of shifting to chase after the detective, a street name flickered into the corner of his eye and he cursed under his breath.

The egotistic feline had gone and left him to interview the un-named ex-wife on his own.

Patting down his jacket he stormed over to the number 43 and firmly knocked on the door; throwing glares down the road hoping the detective would be able to feel them burning the back of his head.

"Just a minute!" A feminine shout called from the house followed by a few crashes and a frustrated curse.

John quickly moved away from the door as the noise got nearer and a young, mid-twenties blonde woman stumbled out of the entrance.

Sweeping her hair out of her face she glanced up and sighed in relief, "Oh, come in, come in – perfect timing."

Before the doctor could protest the Shift; which was clear from her aura, dragged him into the house and slammed the door, forcefully pushing him into a box-filled living room where he proceeded to fall over a collection of sheet covered dining chairs.

"Sorry! Sorry, it's a bit of a mess at the moment but don't worry – I'll have it sorted soon enough," She laughed, wandering out of the room again with a couple more crashes.

_He's sent me here to be murdered_, John thought as he watched the open door with wide eyes.

Swiftly breaking from the paranoid section of his mind he briefly scanned the room while he had the chance; clearly the bubbly woman was either moving out or had just moved in, and judging by the sleek TV sitting out of a new packaging box surrounded by an array of wires waiting to be hooked up; he could assume this was a new housing purchase.

Everything else seemed in order, no suspicious items just a few sickeningly pink sofa covers and a couple of slices of gone-off pizza; although one factor John was trying to wrap his head around was the woman's age – she looked vastly too young to have wanted to be married to a forty-odd year old man.

"What you still doing down there?"

The Shift's head flicked upwards and a frown played on his features as he noted the box of tools she was expectantly holding out, "Come on, I'm going out later – if you could start with fixing that cabinet to the wall you'd be a star."

John blinked, wondering if she was serious, but after a couple of seconds of silence he realised that she was, so he took the tool box and headed over to where she'd indicated.

"So what are you?" She asked as she began to unpack a collection of books.

The Shift tensed at the question, he knew she'd be able to sense his heritage but it was considered rude to out-right ask someone their form; especially a stranger.

"I'm John – John Watson. And you are?"

The woman let out a hysterical laugh hardly worthy of his question and threw him a mocking look, "Right – well I'm Bev, the cutest little bunny that'll be in this neighbourhood; I can guarantee that."

John gave a slow nod, turning his head away to allow himself an expression of disbelief; he was finding it harder and harder to picture this woman married to the dull man who'd been described to him earlier.

"Yes… well," He mumbled, unsure how to go about announcing the death of an ex-husband to someone, this was one of those rare moments where Sherlock's unemotional bluntness would come in useful, "I was prior to some unfortunate information this morning."

Bev glanced up with a confused glint in her eyes, "Um – well, I'm sorry to hear that…"

Finishing attaching the first screw of the bracket, he turned around with a conflicted expression and ran a hand through his hair; gesturing to a nearby dining chair, "You may want to sit down."

Bev opened her mouth as if to argue but instead decided to follow the advice, though not without studying him with a grace of caution, "Are you going to charge me something outrageous for the DIY work?"

"What? No, no," He replied with a deep-set frown, "No, it's actually… Bev – when's the last time you saw your husband?" The doctor in him automatically forwarding the question with a generic soothing tone.

She startled at the enquiry; cocking her head her eyes narrowed as she lowly spoke, "In the flesh?"

"Yes." John calmly agreed.

"You want to know when I last saw my husband – in person."

"If you wouldn't mind."

"And is there any reason for it being any of your business?"

"Well… I have some – news, regarding him."

"This unfortunate news that you found out this morning?"

"I'm afraid so."

"So you have some unfortunate news to tell me regarding my husband who I have yet to meet?"

"Yes, I – " John's gaze flicked from where he'd been staring just behind the Shift's head, "Wait – what?"

Bev pointedly folded her left leg over her right and smirked up at him, laughter dancing in her eyes, "Yes, it's pretty hard to recall when I last saw my husband seeing as how I don't and never have had one."

"So you've never been Bev Carter?" John asked for clarification; inwardly shouting abuse at Sherlock for probably purposely not revealing the ex-wife's name just to conjure this highly embarrassing moment.

"No, I'm not," She slowly replied, the hints of amusement gone from her features; carefully rising from her seat she moved to put the item in-between her and the unknown Shift, "I'm Bev Phillips – which you should have known since I left my name with the DIY service…"

The statement caused the doctor to frown, and he jerkily turned his head to where his eyes fell on the tools that had been handed to him on entrance; a wave of understanding quickly flooded over him and he turned back to the confused customer with a small laugh, "Oh… no; there's been a – "

But a sudden wooden object flew into his vision and he just managed to hit the floor before it made impact with his head; another blow sharply followed just to the left of him and as he rolled to the side he briefly caught sight of the panicked flash in Bev's eyes, _stupid rabbits, always ridiculously twitchy and frightened._

"Who are you!" She screamed, her bubbly nature gone and that threatened and terrified instinct taking place as she swiped the chair at him once more.

The end of the leg clipped John's cheek as he rolled backwards and he could sense the bruise that he was going to have for the next few days.

Frustrated by the feeble attack and the now carelessly sustained injury, he roughly grabbed the end of the chair as it came towards him; pulling, spinning and then carrying out a harmless yet powerful kick, John landed on the chair sternly looking down at the woman now trapped between the four legs on her back.

"You would never do much damage with a wild attack like that – look for weaknesses next time, the knees; nobody ever goes for the knees, always the face. Take out the knees and they're helpless on the floor – remember that for me alright."

Bev gave a wide-eyed nod, her knuckles whitening as she gripped onto the chair legs, "Who are you?" She shakily whispered.

Softening his expression, he got off the chair and helped the young woman off the floor with a gentle smile, "I told you – John Watson. Though I'm afraid you clearly got me confused with a DIY man you were expecting – I just came here to inform a woman of the death of her ex-husband; my inept colleague obviously gave me the wrong address."

Lightly seating the still shaking woman back onto the chair he gave her an apologetic nod and backed towards the living room entrance, "Sorry about the confusion."

Turning around he made his way to the front door, fighting to hold back a growl as he began creating many forms of revenge that could be afflicted against Sherlock in an attempt to calm his flush of embarrassment.

"Wait – did… did you say Carter?"

The soft tone managed to seep through a detailed picture of the detective in distress as he walked into a surprise party – birthday hats and all. Halting, he leant back and popped his head into the doorway, "Yes… why?"

Her confidence seemed to be gradually returning after the provoked attack and she gave him a weak smile, "That's the previous owner of the house – Julie Carter," Indicating her head to a lone box in the corner she added, "That's the stuff that was left behind, most of it was taken by the funeral company – it's kind of sad that she had no friends or family who came to do it."

John blinked and took a step back into the room, "She's dead?"

"Um – yeah," Bev gulped, fractionally leaning away from the doctor as he threatened to move further out of the door-way, "I'm sorry – it was about a month ago, it's why I could actually afford the house; they have to take the pricing down a bit if somebody died in the property."

He gave a disinterested hum of agreement as he moved to kneel down next to the small box that belonged to the previous owner of the house; Carter's wife was dead? Could there be a connection – if she died around a month ago then that would have been around the time Lawrence Carter went abroad on business; did he kill her? But then who would have killed him?

"Do you know how she died?" John asked as he rifled through the box, mostly it was just a collection of unopened parcels; the sender dates varying back to almost a year.

The young Shift who was fidgeting on her chair, likely fighting her instincts to flee from the man who she knew could be a potential threat, "I think she just… died – there wasn't anything gruesome to it; maybe she just wasn't in the best of health."

Frowning at the unlikelihood of that answer he threw the parcels back into the box and took it in his arms, "Well – sorry for the intrusion; I'll just take this off your hands – hope you enjoy your new house."

Then without waiting for a reply the doctor strode from the room and left the building with a slam of the door; but his purposeful stride faltered as he got to the edge of the road – Sherlock still had his phone; how was he supposed to get back to the flat?

* * *

Sherlock heard the pounding of feet on the stairs and could tell from the force of the steps that the Shift wasn't too pleased with being abandoned at the side of the road; bending his head backwards he watched as John emerged through the door.

On seeing the doctor's new attire the detective flung his legs over the side of the chair so he could better angle himself in the man's direction, "John, as delightful as you look covered in rope – may I ask why this is the case?"

Dropping a cardboard box onto the floor with a crash the Shift threw a sharp glare at Sherlock as he began to try and wriggle his way out of the mountain of messily tied rope strewn across his body, "Well, seeing as how someone left me without means of transport or contact – I had to find a way to run home as a hound since walking would have been ridiculous, while also trying to get this stupid box of potential evidence back as well. Now - you try and be a hound and carry a collection of rubbish with you."

The feline smirked and went back to reading his document, "So you stole a child's skateboard, managed to eventually attach the rope to yourself in a way that it wouldn't fall loose when you shifted and dragged your box behind on the trip."

"I didn't steal it – _you_ have every intention of returning it," John sniped, grabbing the tea his friend had been raising to his mouth and taking a deep swallow of it before throwing the remains down the sink.

Glancing at his now empty hand Sherlock frowned in the direction of the kitchen, "I take it you retrieved some information – or did you just come back to sulk and deprive me of hydration?"

Re-entering the room minus the rope, John swiped a parcel out of the newly arrived box and collapsed onto the sofa; slipping out a chocolate tray which he proceeded to noisily eat, knowing how the sound disgusted the detective.

"Julie Carter – that was her name by the way; died around a month ago, the girl at the house – no relation – didn't know how. Only thing left of hers was this box which is mostly just all unopened parcels from what I can see – though guess who they're all sent from."

Flicking his gaze at the box Sherlock drawled, "Her ex-husband I presume."

"Yep," John confirmed, his face scrunching up as he placed another chocolate in his mouth, "Ugh – what flavour is that?"

Placing his joined fingertips at the edge of his chin he began to mutter, "So Lawrence clearly didn't initiate the divorce."

"It's like – eating soil, no… worse, it's like – like…"

"And that volume shows signs of a desperate man even though she clearly wasn't interested in re-instating their relationship since she didn't open anything."

"Marmite! But not marmite you know – because of course I doubt they'd make such a flavour…"

"Which considerably lowers the theory that he killed her, which could be contemplated seeing the time span of her death and his leaving the country; more likely would be her killing him because he was becoming too harassing, maybe spoiling her chances of finding another man – which of course isn't possible for the fact that she was too busy being dead to have the time to do so."

"Unless a company have decided to make a rip-off of J.K's Every Flavoured Beans – wait, does it say anything on the packet?"

"I need to know how she died – something around her could be connected to Lawrence's income tally."

"Hmm… no, no Harry Potter – shame I'm waiting for someone to do that – oh it's got a strawberry filled one though," Placing the much more pleasurable chocolate into his mouth John focused back onto the detective as he came around from talking to himself, after so many months the Shift had learnt that Sherlock spoke in an essay lay-out when thinking; meaning that one only had to hear the end conclusion to understand what he'd been pondering, rather than the full amount, "What's wrong with the guy's income?"

Raising an eyebrow he threw John a returning question, "What did you think of the house we found the body in?"

The doctor's gaze drew up as he tried to recall the details of the house, "Well it was big, the brickwork still had its soft colour so it was a reasonably new build – not one of the best houses on the market but in an area like that it would have set him back by a reasonable amount."

"Exactly," Sherlock agreed, "So how did he suddenly move to a place like that without any form of job change but with an added divorce – from this?"

Slipping a hand into his jean pocket he held out a picture to John, who stood up and walked over to take a look, "This is his old place?"

The magazine cut-out from an estate leaflet showed a run-down block of flats, the grey brickwork faded and streaked with old strips of paint; the interior picture didn't offer much more – the flat was a reasonable size for two people and it seemed to be in a fair enough condition but it wasn't anything to brag about. It was certainly better than the old council flat he'd ended up in after returning from Afgan but compared to the house Carter was living in before he died; it was a mess of a home.

"Yes, and that along with the cost of these gifts he was sending to his ex-wife," Sherlock continued, opening some of the parcels since he'd finally decided to move from his chair, "Gold-plated necklaces, antique novels; even those chocolates you were eating were Thornton's finest – this guy had money. But the question is where was he getting it?"

"So there's nothing on his bank statements?" John replied, picking up the confidential documents the detective had been scanning over when he'd walked in; the Shift had stopped trying to lecture Sherlock on the wrongs of downloading personal files a long time ago and now just took it for how it was.

Wrapping a Chinese silk scarf around his neck and sniffing it, determining that it was indeed authentic, he clicked his tongue stating, "No – meaning he was getting cash in hand from somewhere."

"And a lot of it," John interrupted, "He was getting ripped off by his management – rubbish income plus they were making him pay for all the accommodation and travel when they sent him off to other countries to check on things; I wouldn't refuse some extra money if I'd been him."

Sherlock was examining a bottle of French perfume, giving it a light spray his face scrunched up and he let out some rasping coughs, waving a patterned fan at the particles to try and blow away the sickly sweet smell, "Well luckily you have a roommate with a rich brother so I don't think you'll be having to go down the black-market route anytime soon –"

"So that's what you think happened? He was getting money from the black-market, got on the wrong side of someone and was disposed of?" John questioned, raising an eyebrow as he glanced up to witness Sherlock placing a well-made fabric rose in his top jacket pocket as he continued to search through the items.

Rubbing the rose's petal between his fingers, finding it to be hand-woven the detective muttered, "It's likely; but we'll visit the homeless-network tomorrow to double check," He cut off as a smirk etched his face at the small box that fell out of the next parcel; turning around from where he was knelt he looked at John with an amused glint, "Lawrence really didn't know when to give up."

Taking a few steps forward the doctor opened the small box Sherlock was holding out to him and he sighed with a shake of his head at the sight of the cheesy inscribed engagement ring 'My love for you will live as long as I do'.

"Oh my; a surprising romantic it seems –"

A small gasp interrupted John's pity for their desperate victim and both men looked around to see Mrs Hudson staring at them with teary eyes; her hands covering her mouth, hiding the excited smile on her lips.

John's gaze quickly flicked back to where the detective was frowning in confusion at their landladies emotional display and a realisation of horror came over him as he took in Sherlock's rose and scarf, the whiff of french perfume in the room plus the ring that he was holding out while kneeling on the floor.

Turning back around the Shift held out a hand to the elderly lady, "Oh – no, wait…"

But Mrs Hudson didn't let him finish, casting her eyes away from the ring her wet gaze fell on the doctor and she shakily whispered, "No – I'm sorry, I didn't mean to…"

Biting her lip as a beaming smile slid onto her face she hurriedly exclaimed, "Congratulations!" Before swinging the door close and rushing back to her flat where she was probably already planning an engagement party.

John's outstretched hand slid over his face as he groaned, "I'd finally convinced her last week!"

Then with an exasperated sigh he sped after her with another slam of the door shouting, "Mrs Hudson! Wait a minute – no… no don't call anyone!"

Sherlock frowned from where he was now knelt in an empty flat, listening to what sounded like a scuffle over the phone downstairs; he didn't understand why his landlady had seemed so moved by a scarf and bit of perfume, or why John was so annoyed by it.

_Sentiment_, he thought with an eye roll.

* * *

_Thank you, please review :) x_


	4. The Tea

Snake in the Grass

**Disclaimer:** Characters and concept belongs to BBC, only storyline is mine

So sorry for lack of update - hectic life but hopefully the length of this chapter will help make up for my timing!

* * *

"It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts."  
― **Arthur Conan Doyle, _Sherlock Holmes _**

* * *

The Tea

"John – would you stop glaring at the back of my head, however long you remain to do so it will still give you no response."

Pulling his coat tighter around his shivering form the doctor held his intense focus on the detective's bouncing hair, "I know – I'm trying to set it alight."

"I really don't see why you're angry at me," Sherlock sighed, making a sharp turn down a darkened alley that John hadn't noticed, "I'm not the one who called Scotland Yard announcing our supposed engagement."

Squinting to see where his friend had now disappeared, as the man had a frustrating ability to fully blend in with the night shadows he replied, "Yes, but Mrs Hudson is an elderly lady and my morals won't allow me to place blame on her… you on the other hand –"

"Am quite capable of taking all of it," Sherlock finished, suddenly appearing in front of the older man, however failing to make him jump as being an ex-solider a reaction such as that would have been embarrassing, "But perhaps for the moment we could focus on this case rather than your desire to chew my right arm off – if you'd be so kind."

Still feeling disgruntled by the whole event, despite being aware it was childish, John sent him one last hardened glare and muttered, "I could take your left arm as well before you had a chance to shift."

"I have no doubt," The detective agreed with a smirk before spinning around and continuing on-route through the silent back streets; his tone switching to the superior yet slightly bored drawl of 'on-case' mode, "I don't know why we haven't found anyone yet – this is one of the prime shelters for the homeless."

Dodging the fabric of the dramatic coat as Sherlock spun, John glanced around the empty corners, "Maybe they knew you were coming; plus may I ask why we needed to come out and find them in the middle of the night rather than waiting until the morning like most regular people?"

"Because I am anything but regular," Sherlock jibed in return, a response he only gave due to spending too much time working with the hound; there'd once been an hour where there would be no cutting between focusing on a case and retaliating to jokes, however somewhere along the line that had changed without him even noticing.

"Also, it's easier to find them at night – during the day they wander off individually through lack of trust of one another, yet come nightfall, they sleep together in groups for protection. Strange how they assume that the person who would steal your wallet in the day would watch your back while you sleep."

Cursing, the doctor shook his now wet leg from what he strongly hoped had been a puddle of water he'd just stepped in and not what it actually smelt like, "You say easier – yet it has been an hour and we haven't bumped into anyone."

"Cause I ain't wanted to be bumped into," A rough voice replied from the shadows, followed by a tired, bearded man emerging at the doctor's shoulder.

This time, John did jump.

Sometimes he wondered why the Special Ops didn't start their recruitment with the homeless network; they were better candidates than some of the officers he'd got through just his normal level ranks.

"I don't know why you felt the need to follow us for the past twenty minutes," Sherlock drawled, ignoring his companions splutter at hearing he could have already been heading home.

The man shrugged, "Got to do something for fun 'round here."

"You knew he was there?" John hissed, "But you were just questioning why we haven't come across anyone!"

Sherlock threw a glare at him for the needless question, however quickly replied, "Yes but I hadn't been wondering where our informant was, simply curious as to why nobody else was in the area."

The ragged man interrupted the two friends with a brief cough, wanting to get back to his spot before someone went and stole it, "Anyway I did what yer asked," He said, his tone marginally lowering as he stepped forward, moving into business, "Sent the picture and name around, but nobody's seen this Lawrence fella' "

His gaze remained solely on the detective as he spoke; not because he had any disrespect against the doctor, the man had been around quite a bit and often brought a coffee or some food for them, but he intimidated him a bit more than he'd like to let on – he didn't like guns… or hounds.

A frown edged onto Sherlock's face at the information, he'd had a high certainty that someone would have dealt with their victim, "Are you positive?"

The man returned the response with an 'Are you seriously questioning me' look, which for anybody else, he would have left with that; but since it was the man who gave them money and reasonable protection, he made an exception, "I'm sure – spread it all 'bout the place, even checked with some of the shadier dealers – nothin'."

John mentally sighed at this conformation, now he would have a sulking child as company whilst he got over the fact that he'd been wrong, and then a stubborn man dragging him around trying to find a new deduction to hide the fact that his original one had been mistaken.

"Well him being a newbie to the underworld had just been a vague assumption anyway," The doctor off-handily stated; though the inner tantrum glint had already hardened in his friend's gaze.

Scratching the back of his neck the homeless man added, "Hey – we're all wrong sometimes."

The earlier sigh became audible at the man's tactless words so he wasn't surprised when Sherlock shifted and stalked off without a word of reply.

He flicked a glare to their informant who hastily raised his hands in a gesture of innocence and took a step backwards; he really didn't want to be alone in a darkened alley with the fiercer than seemed doctor, "I didn't mean nothin' by it," he defended with a naive expression.

John ignored the man and pressed his fingers against the bridge of his nose, with the detective's constant use of his phone along with this habit of leaving him with unpaid homeless people; he was soon going to be becoming one of the network himself.

The man visibly paled as the doctor stepped forward, placing his hand in his pocket; flinching backwards his eye's scouted the empty street in hope of escape and he tensed as his back hit the wall, scratchily pleading, "Really – I'm sorry… I shouldn' have- ," His hands pushed further in front of his body as if they would provide protection, " – please don't hurt me!"

He whimpered as something made contact with his hand but when no other sensation occurred, he turned his head and unclenched his eyelids to nervously look at what he'd been handed. On opening, a fifty pound note came into view and a wave of relief fell over his body; flicking his gaze up, he gave a sheepish smile to the annoyed expression of the Shift – he could nearly feel the embarrassment the doctor was holding for him at that moment.

"Let us know it anything comes up," John ordered, placing his hands back in his pockets and moving away from the man pressed up against the wall with wide eyes still twitchily following his movements, as if he'd just pushed a knife to his neck and threatened his loved ones; was he really that frightening?

He paused once he'd turned the corner, his muscles relaxing at no longer having the sense of a pair of eyes on him; it always put his inner hound on guard. Raising his head to the sky he drew in a deep breath through his nose; a wall of scents suddenly bombarded into him but it only took him a second to locate the familiar one of his friend, and he automatically shifted, following the path that he really hoped would end up back at the flat.

Fortunately luck was on his side and he was soon placing his paw on a hidden latch on the ground that caused the door to spring open by a slight amount; allowing the hound to nudge it the rest of the way and slip in, giving it a firm push with his head to close it once inside.

The latch was a reasonably new accessory from the time John had shifted to enter the main building and suddenly been grabbed from behind by some assailants who'd purposely waited for him to switch to human form; handcuffs had been forced on his wrists before he had been dragged into a van and had to wait a couple of days until he was found. From there it was decided that he would only make a shift while inside the property – hence the latch.

Deciding to remain in his form as he took the stairs since he didn't want to disturb Mrs Hudson with his heavy human footsteps, he slipped into the flat to find Sherlock cross-legged on the armchair staring at the doctor's laptop screen.

"Did you make the poor man cry this time?" The detective asked as he sensed his friend enter the room; not breaking his eye-contact with the flickering screen.

Huffing, John shifted back into his human form and as per usual, made his way to the kitchen, "Very nearly – but no. He had a better back-bone than the last one." Slamming a mug on the counter top and flicking the kettle onto boil he added, "Maybe I should shift and go and be a comforting pet for some of the younger ones someday – then the rest of them might stop imagining me ripping them to shreds every time I step into their vision."

"I doubt it; they'd probably just think you were leading them into a false sense of security, "Sherlock murmured, tapping a few keys on the laptop, "You know that a man actually fainted when I suggested sending you to retrieve some information from him once he'd collected it."

The doctor placed the milk back into the fridge on the shelf above the newly brought intestines and shut it with a sigh, "It's like being a hit-man who doesn't realise his profession."

The detective smirked at the statement, "You're too feared to be a hit-man - you're more a gang leader."

"Well at least I'm secured when this crime-solving duo comes to an end," John muttered, throwing his used spoon into the sink and taking a sip of his tea.

Sherlock expectantly held out an open hand, still staring at the screen, as John re-entered the living room and frowned as the man by-passed him to take a place on the sofa, "Could you refrain from making us sound like a couple of children's cartoon character?"

"Kind of hard with your attire," The doctor replied into his mug.

The detective glared at his friend and slowly curled up his open tea-less hand, "There is nothing cartoon-like about my clothes."

"I can picture it," John grinned, looking to the air and gesturing to the image, "A collection of small figurines in long coats, scarves and custom-made leather shoes – they could even have their own miniature magnifying glasses."

Sherlock grimaced at the idea, "I will not allow you to make commercialised dolls of me."

"I may have to if you keep leaving me to pay off your homeless informants," He stated with a pointed look; bringing the conversation back to the case now he'd subtly and successfully disallowed his friend an opportunity to sulk over his failed theory.

The absence of tea forgotten, the detective clutched back onto the presence of the case and began relaying the deductions he'd gathered while John had been frightening homeless men, "Well seeing as our man wasn't even a mildly recognised figure within the underworld clearly he got involved with activities through other means."

Tilting his head towards his friend he hurriedly spoke with a tone that doubled in speed at each word, "Now the question would be, how could this man with such a dull and scheduled life unknowingly meet a dealer or agenda-seeking shift; for it wasn't the work of an average shift who got minimally annoyed as that occurrence would have had more over-kill.

Now the only recent out of place event was his assignment trip for the travel agency; here he could have been meeting or simply happened to meet his soon-to-be murderer and through his careless actions made himself a target, was followed home in order to weaken any connection between the foreign criminal and killed."

John gave no response to his friend's explanation; he knew the detective wasn't looking for one and from the glint in his eyes the doctor could see that he hadn't finished so an interruption wouldn't be appreciated. Hence he decided to instead focus on keeping his eyes open; it was now an early hour of the morning and he could practically _hear_ his bed calling him.

"At the scene I quickly noted the fact that there was no airline ticket on his person; at the time with little information it could have been simply because he'd thrown it away however with the theory that his trip hadn't been simply business related a possible factor could be that in fact he didn't _have_ a ticket.

And on this basis, while you were dawdling, a phone call confirmed that Mr Carter has always privately booked his flights, which strengthens my assumption that this source of money he was collecting was also providing private flights over-sea."

Re-adjusting his weight on the sofa John rolled his eyes at this news, "You'd have thought his agency would have found it just a tad suspicious that he could afford to pay for his own company related flights and was willing to do so."

"We can't all be genius detectives… or hold above average common sense," Sherlock drawled with a self-satisfied expression donned during moments where his intellect could be superiorly compared to another being – so his daily features.

"Anyway," The detective continued, leaping from the armchair next to John using a grace that gave proof to his feline form and setting the laptop on the man's knees, "I'm currently scanning all private flights that entered the UK yesterday and cross-referencing the results with airports that had a passport for Lawrence Carter move through it; then I'm furthermore comparing the flight results to the security footage of each airport as if he was travelling by an illegally sourced jet it would be highly idiotic to use genuine identification."

John vaguely heard his friend's words however his mind was already pre-occupied; he blinked at the several pages on his screen rapidly flickering pictures, figures and flashing orange lit results before they were dragged into the next document and comparison.

It was an astounding piece of technological software which the detective had likely written in the short time he'd been alone in the flat; especially as he knew Sherlock had only begun to learn computer programming six weeks ago when he'd been bored and taken a random manual from one of the evidence chambers at Scotland Yard.

So turning to face his expectant friend John commented, "Have you just hacked the British Airway Database and National Security of Air Travel?"

The man looked slightly taken-back at the non-praising comment, "How else am I supposed to compare all the variables?"

"By not using my computer to breach national security for starters!" John growled, manically indicating at the evidence for a long prison stretch, "Why didn't you use your computer!"

"Because they already have my IP address on red alert," Sherlock replied in that groaning, frustrated yet still slightly arrogant tone, "However yours they've never seen so it'll take them at least twenty four hours to by-pass my firewalls and viruses; I've even got the signal pinging from forty five satellites world-wide. So by the time they've worked through it all I'll already be finished and off-line."

"That still doesn't condemn you using my laptop for illegal activities!"

"John it's only mildly illegal when your elder brother is the National Security and government – it's more like looking through some of your siblings documents on their home computer."

"Apart from the whole prison issue being involved."

"Lestrade would pull some strings if that came into occurrence – which it will not."

"That's a thought – why didn't you just ask him to get this information for you? You know, through the legal routes!"

"Takes too long – I need answers now."

"Yet you're still waiting for your programme to finish."

"There is a vast amount of data to analyse; but it will still achieve more than a Scotland Yard paper trail."

"Whatever – while you wait for that I'm going to go achieving some sleep; so no more skulking in dark alley ways for the night."

Sherlock stretched his legs across the sofa once John stood up and laid his head back, closing his eyes and placing his hands under his chin; his fingertips tickling his skin, "No promises," The low mutter replied.

The doctor rolled his eyes but decided to ignore the comment; he could now feel the equivalent to a magnetic pull urging him up the stairs and he enthusiastically gave in to it.

Though as the detective heard the beginning creak sounding of the closing of his friend's bedroom door one last sentence echoed down the stairs, "And don't hack Mycroft and leave him some weird hidden message assumedly from me again; I don't need another awkward lecture about his matrimonial status."

Sherlock's lips curved upwards as the door clicked shut.

"Too late."

* * *

John shuffled into the living room running a hand over his face and up through his hair, stifling back a yawn, "Sherlock?"

He'd been happily surprised when he had been woken by the shrill beeping of his alarm clock, as he'd fallen asleep with an acceptance that shoes and a coat in his face would be his wake up call with an excited order to get running and researching.

So it was a pleasant change knowing he'd just experienced a straight six hours sleep; yet now he was conscious, the silence of the unplaced detective was quite un-nerving.

"Sher-" The word stuck in his throat as he turned the corner to enter the kitchen; his eyes widened and his mouth froze slightly parted, "What on earth!"

The kitchen containing his much desired morning tea had been transformed into a freshly ransacked and not recently tided printing press.

Newspaper articles, holiday leaflets, information databases and various other paper-related items were covering every inch of the floor and furniture surfaces; creating a mountain so tall that he couldn't see the fridge behind it.

"What happened to paper-chases taking too long?" He muttered, casting a glare over the offending objects as if they might move in fear to allow him a path to the tea-bags, "Sherlock!"

Another person would be taking the lack of response as a sign that their friend was asleep and would courteously quieten down, however John knew this not to be the case and even if it were, it wouldn't stop him shouting.

"I hardly ever complain about your mess! But right now I cannot see the tea-bags and if you – " But his mouth shut the rage off as his head reflexively sped to the left at a slight rustling that caught his attention and his eyes slowly trailed over to the middle of the huge paper pile.

"Really?" He sighed under his breath, drawing out a long blink.

The small movement occurred again and the doctor's head tilted towards the noise; stepping out of his slippers and spreading his toes John gently padded towards the miniscule shuffling of paper. His eyes snapped to the far corner as the sound moved, his hound senses becoming more prominent as he stalked the hidden detective.

Without warning, the doctor leapt into the pile, aiming for the source of the reason he still hadn't drunk his morning tea; paper soared around the room and a startled hiss erupted as John wildly flung his arms out in fierce sweeps.

"Sherlock – I run around London in the dead of night," He growled, swiping at the paper smothering his face, "Get kidnapped and attacked at least once a week," Banging his head against the fridge door he spun around, "And more than is reasonable break the law!"

His foot slid as it landed on a sheet of paper and he flew backwards, hitting the floor with a grinding thud.

"So I demand my stupid cup of tea!"

A light tap on the door with an amused, "Hello?" halted John in his near shifting process; unknowingly saving the annoying cat from a dive out of the top window and the doctor ripped out another growl, pushing himself out of the paper and collapsing into the living room as he once again slid over the mess.

Cursing under his breath John opened his eyes to see a bemused Lestrade looking down at him, an eyebrow quirked upwards and a suspicious quiver at the corner of his mouth, "This a bad time?"

Groaning he picked himself from the floor, "Just Sherlock being a jerk," He muttered, throwing a scowl at the corner of the paper kitchen where he swore he'd just seen the flash of a black feline head.

"And the honeymoon periods over before its even begun," Lestrade sighed with an exaggerated shake of his head, "Don't worry you'll get past your fiancées personality; him still being alive is proof enough."

"Is that the only reason you came around – to torture me further?" John moaned, once again wishing he had never given Mrs Hudson the number to the inspector's department those few months ago.

"Partially," He grinned, "But also just to let you know that I've interviewed Carter's manager and it seems he was sent to examine a hotel in Barcelona a month ago; he was only supposed to be there for a week but the day he was due to come home he called in saying he wanted to take his holiday leave. Didn't give a reason just signed out for three weeks and wasn't heard from again."

"Well we've got him likely involved in some shady business," John replied, the half of his conscious mind glad that he was wearing pyjamas under his dressing gown with the impromptu visit, "And whatever business that is will likely have something to do with the no-longer existent kitchen and my lack of tea!" He shouted at the end, turning his head to the other room.

Lestrade smirked at the one-sided bickering and asked with mock sympathy, "He refusing to make you beverages? Wait a minute – I thought you'd be the wife in the relationship."

The glare the inspector received for his remark could have been a weapon of mass destruction in its own right but unlike most other people who fell for the promise of death in the gaze, it just made his mouth curve up further.

John had a string of blackmailing threats strung in his head ready to throw at his _hilarious_ friend when a glorious scent hit his nostrils and he froze, staring at the man in front of him with wide eyes.

Before Lestrade could question the uncomfortable flash of what seemed to be but he really hoped wasn't, desire on the doctor's face, he found the shadow of a hand in his now empty coat pocket and witnessed the back of a grey highlighted blonde head rushing down the stairs.

"Hey – what'd you -" Rummaging through his pocket he frowned at the empty stairwell and quickly followed the path, calling ahead of him, "Give me back my car keys!"

Arriving outside he found the doctor sitting in his car, legs dangling out of the open door drinking his thermal flask of Earl Grey tea.

Lestrade's eyebrows drew together at the sight but as soon as he made a move to grab the flask John let out a possessive growl and leaned out of reach, catching the inspector's eye and sarcastically commenting, "Consider it an engagement present."

"As long as I get to be best-man," He returned, though with a small hint of underlying distaste as he'd been looking forward to his Earl Grey.

His eye-line rose above the tea kidnapper as he folded his arms and even went for a tap of the foot to convey his wanting of the flask returned, however as his gaze moved it caught sight of a well-groomed middle aged man in a contrasting shabby brown suit across the road, staring at the occupant of his car.

Quickly continuing his eye's path to not draw to the fact he'd noticed the stranger, Lestrade casually bent slightly forward and leant on the open door, therefore moving his face closer to his friend so he could mutter, "You've got someone watching you across the street."

Unlike the inspector, John took no precaution or subtly as he turned and stretched backwards to glance out of the driver's seat before pushing himself up again and standing on the ridge of the car, signalling the man's attention with a friendly wave.

Lestrade grabbed his friend's waving hand, "You know him?"

"No," The doctor lightly replied, jumping off the car and moving to meet the man who was now crossing the road while ignoring his friend's grunt of disapproval at not assessing the stranger lurking outside his flat before deciding to go and have a chat.

"Can I help you?" John asked as the man stopped in front of him; truthfully he did have a hunch that the stranger had some information about the picture of Lawrence they'd been circulating, so he was fairly certain he wasn't being unreasonable and unknowingly approaching an assassin like it seemed Lestrade thought he was.

The man threw a wary look at the inspector who was coming up behind John and replied in a silky low tone, "Your mate a cop?"

The doctor saw his friend open his mouth to reply but he slapped a hand on his shoulder and gave the stranger an innocent expression, "Actually Greg was just leaving."

From the look he was returned it was evident that Greg was _not_ just leaving but he applied more pressure on his shoulder grip causing the inspector to wince and shake out of the hold, taking a few steps back, "Yeah," He tightly replied, "I was on my way."

He made a move to take the flask from John's hand but the doctor casually moved nearer the stranger and smirked at his friend, "Thanks for the tea."

Lestrade's gaze narrowed as he stiffly indicated a nod, "No problem."

Then forcing himself to turn around he headed back to his car, John's acute hearing picking up the low mumbles about 'that thieving hound' which caused his mouth to twitch up just a bit further.

"Sorry," The doctor re-started, stepping to block where the stranger's firm gaze was still on the disgruntled inspector who was fumbling with his seat belt, "So, did you have something to tell me?"

The man paused, waiting for the car to pull out before he flicked his eyes to the detective's companion, "I heard you were asking around about a certain fellow."

John took in his visitor's appearance, the sleeked hair, expensive watch and smooth tone clearly shouting his works as some form of dealer in the underworld.

Yet the fraying on the hems of the suit along with scratches and light rusting on the dimming silver watch let the doctor into the fact that this man's business hadn't been running so smoothly as of late meaning he was going to be out of pocket if he wanted information.

"That we were," John replied, not wanting to offer money before it was requested.

As his mouth moved to answer a sudden realisation seemed to hit the man and his eyebrows drew together, "Maybe you'd like to talk inside," He hinted with a pointed nod at the dark blue dressing gown the doctor was still sporting.

It was the first moment John's brain registered the fact that he'd run into the middle of the street in his night-wear and he self-consciously pulled the string tighter around his stomach. However he didn't want to announce that he'd forgotten about his attire, plus, the childish section of his mind wanted to hear any news before Sherlock, so he stubbornly answered, "I see no need."

The dealer threw him an odd look but shrugged it off; swiping the side of his hand over the tip of his nose in a swift movement he glanced around and stepped closer, the expected greed appearing in his tone.

"Alright then, but I've given myself quite a bit of trouble – coming all the way out here… having your cop mate eye-balling me," The corner of his mouth twitched upwards and he subtly towered over the smaller man, "So I think I deserve a little… reward for my efforts, before I divulge what I know."

John was trying his hardest not to laugh at what this man obviously thought was a threatening persona - he really was. Fortunately he managed to hold it back to a mild smirk; he definitely wouldn't be getting one-up on Sherlock if he burst into hysteria in the egotistical dealer's face.

"Of course," John coughed, meeting the man's gaze with his trademark mixture of convincing respect yet outlined mockery, "So tell me what you know and then I'll give you what you want."

It seemed as if he was going to cut down the order, but giving the doctor another glance over clearly realised that it wasn't as if he'd currently have money available on him anyway.

"He used to hang around my place quite a bit," The dealer began, "Was always lurking in the corners when I was carrying off deals; thought he was a cop after a while but my scouts reported him clean – then he still continued peeping on my business; broke into my office and fiddled with the stuff, a few times as well – never caught him."

"What's your business?"

He faltered at the doctor's question but still replied, though with slight more caution in his tone, "I produce ID – driver's licences, quick things for underage's wanting drink. But passports are my speciality – haven't had one failure with them to date…"

John's brain flickered with revelation at the mention of passports and he was only half concentrated on the dealer's still moving mouth, "Until suddenly nobody cares about all the work I've done for them – they all just run off to the next thing simply because his prices are a bit lower! But he doesn't have my quality –"

John raised a hand to stop the rambling, "You think Lawrence Carter opened his own forgery and took your customers?"

"Oh no – its Glint who's done that," He hissed, sub-consciously clenching his palms into fists at the reminder, "I'd know if this Lawrence had started anything – I kept tabs on him. But I think he definitely started forging for someone; he'd been watching my technique for long enough and stolen a fair amount of equipment… plus I haven't seen him for at least over a year, just disappeared from the streets – hey wait, where you going!"

The information had completed its process within the doctor's mind and he'd abruptly jogged back to his front door; his informant, surprised by the sudden departure quickly recovered, "What about my reward!"

John's hand latched onto the doorframe to stop his motion as he breached the entrance and he tilted his head back whilst a wry grin formed, "Next time you're in the station, ask for Lestrade – a dealer on the inside, he'll help you out."

Then he disappeared, leaving an averagely satisfied man in the middle of the street.

_Can't wait to see the paperwork he'll get for that accusation._

Reaching the top of the stairs John re-entered the flat to a human detective lounging in the arm chair fully pristine in an obvious attempt to give the impression that it was the _doctor_ who was being waited on.

His following statement concluded this, "You've finally decided to make an appearance then – really we have work to do John."

A slight growl painted the doctor's sarcastic reply, "Why of course, it was _so_ inconsiderate of me."

Obviously the tone didn't register with Sherlock and he indicated a small nod, "Quite alright – now onto Mr Carter," Swinging his legs over the arm-rest he swiftly moved into his presentation stance, the smug glint for expected praise appearing in his eyes.

"The key was to find out what he was offering to be in access of private jet flights and within the security footage I found him; now as I predicted the passport was under a different name however a wider search revealed that–"

"He was under a new name in each flight," John interrupted, not in the mood to politely allow the detective to tell him what he'd already worked out as was more per usual than most people assumed, "To which you then probably found all the other sightings of him using the list of when he was over-shores due to apparent work which showed he'd used quite a range of different alias', all of which were legit enough to not get onto any radar concluding that Mr Carter was a personal passport forger to the person who had him killed."

The expression that fell over the detective's face was surprisingly satisfying and the doctor made a mental note to inject into findings more often.

"Yes –well," Sherlock muttered, subtly straightening his posture as if trying to regain his superiority, "Are you aware of where his return flight came from?"

John's gaze flicked to some of the papers on the desk and in that second his eye's registered a word; so he decided to chance it, "Afghanistan."

Now the detective was definitely stunned, "How could you possibly know that?"

"You're not the only one who can do your job," He replied with a smirk; deciding to keep the appearance of holding high level deducting, "But my question is – why on earth did you need enough paper to fill the entire kitchen if most of your research was security footage?"

Sherlock grinned at the question and indicated the doctor around the corner to the mountain, the confidence that he wouldn't already know this information emitting off him, "This has nothing to do with Carter's flight history – _this_ is his postal history to his ex-wife; well, his and a majority of all other senders to the same area. The database doesn't store it individually and I didn't have time to create a new one just for Carter simply so I could have less printing."

John threw him a side-glance, raising one eyebrow.

The detective noted the confusion and swiftly begun rambling, "I wanted to see if there was some kind of pattern between the time periods of when parcels were sent to his ex-wife – there wasn't. However there _was_ evidence that the last parcel sent was the ring and it was delivered while he was on his three week leave, after the wife's death meaning that Carter would have received an email informing him of the failed delivery due to the receiver being deceased – not the most desirable means to find that your ex-wife is dead."

The doctor amusedly huffed at the sentence from where he was marginally tilting over the paper mountain.

"Then I managed to get into the postal service's outbox and from Lestrade's news it seems that the day the email was sent to inform of the failed parcel was the day Carter called to take his leave. So clearly this shows us that – oh for goodness sake, yes that's your newspaper – more pressing matters at hand!"

John was holding his morning newspaper that he'd spotted among the vast pile staring at the headline 'American Crime Rates Rise' with a mournful gaze; he'd just wanted ten minutes to sit quietly, drink some tea and read the newspaper – was it really too much to ask?

Sighing, Sherlock grabbed the paper and threw it far into the kitchen; successfully regaining the doctor's now slightly annoyed attention, "As I was saying – this shows us the reason of his death. A year ago the wife found out about Carter's illegal work, it clearly shown when she saw the house they were going to move into; hence the divorce.

Yet likely she was still curious about her ex-husbands exploits and started asking too many questions to the wrong people resulting in her being taken out – then when Carter found out about this he took off to Afghanistan where his boss was residing in a foolish act of revenge and ended up getting himself killed."

Silence submerged the room as John pursed his lips and slowly nodded his head, his eyebrows slightly drawn together. Leaning down into the arm chair he clasped his hands, retaining the momentum of a nodding dog for a while longer before he looked up and caught the detective's gleeful gaze, "So what you're saying is we've just stumbled our way into the works of an international gang."

Sherlock rolled on the balls of his feet, the grin on his face widening along with the sparkle in his eye.

"I only wanted some tea," John groaned as his head flopped onto the back of the chair.

* * *

The passing glare of light pierced through the darkness and he growled at the crack in the wooden boards messily nailed over the smashed window.

He could still hear the leaking pipe water echoing throughout the room as each drop rippled through his acute senses; it set him on edge – doing nothing to discourage the scream inside which was restless to hunt, stalk, kill.

It had felt so… good.

He wanted more – he needed more.

But there was still the mission; the reward.

A whisper, did he need the reward?

Yes, he still did – he thinks.

The next stream of light scrammed across his face, reflecting off his teeth under his curled back lip.

He had work to do.

* * *

_Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it :) x_


End file.
